


He Blinded Me With Science!

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Enemies to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Smut, Plot Twists, Sam Is Scarred For Life, Some Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:49:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4065646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He may be the Father of Psychoanalysis, but Sigmund Freud was in way over his head.</p>
<p>Regardless, in order for the assignment to go smoothly, Dean had to be sated by someone. The question was, with almost half of the school’s female population out of the picture, who was going to rise to the occasion to be the hero this assignment needed?</p>
<p>Or the one where Castiel gets dealt a lesson in reverse psychology.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Blinded Me With Science!

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry I haven't posted in a while! This piece was written to dig myself out of a Writer's Pit I unconsciously fell into. Hopefully that doesn't reflect too obviously.

Castiel Novak wasn’t a psychologist, but he was positive there was something loose in Dean Winchester’s noddle.

Fortuitous by nature, it all started in Psychology 101. Professor Mills, being the stickler she was for team building exercises, sectioned off the class in groups of three. Cas was sure the forty-something was deliberately testing his resolve when the fate of a two-hundred point assignment rested in the hands of the Hardy Brothers.

Sam and Dean Winchester were new to the university and had already built a reputation faster than Noah built the Arc.

Sam was the younger brother. Most of the time, his teachers couldn’t stand him because he was a fount of knowledge, always rippling and towering above the rest of his peers. Cas had him in AP Biology next hour. If the guy couldn’t talk your ear off about mitosis, he’d draw you an unerring visual of how babies come to be. (“Mr. Tran, did you happen to know metamorphosis is actually one of the primal foundations of the evolutionary theory?”) If there were AP classes for AP classes, Sam would be at the top of the waiting list.

Basically Sam was the one to make Aunt Gertrude proud. Dean was a different story.

Dean was the nullius filius of Marlon Brando and James Dean with the swagger of Mick Jagger: He was nice to look at until he opened his mouth. Then he might as well have been Steven Tyler singing the National Anthem. (He swears on the devil that plucked his tight ass out of Hell that these pop-culture references are Dean’s doing. The guy never gets a lick of work done, but can raddle off _America’s Greatest_ in no time flat.)

He’s rude, he’s inappropriate, and he’s completely incompetent when it comes to group projects or any other form of social interaction, which is about 99.9% of Psychology. It’s more than obvious that he has a learning intolerance because he’s told every Tom, Dick, and Harry to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. Cas doesn’t know how he hasn’t gotten kicked out yet—or how he even got accepted in the first place.

As if group projects weren’t hard enough. Then God made the Winchesters.

“So get this,” Sam intercepted like something out of a bad procedural cop show. He pointed to a scratch piece of paper swept underneath his hands. “By my calculations, if we split our time and efforts accordingly— _Dean_ —we should be done with this project by midnight. I didn’t add restroom or food breaks, but you get the gist.”

Castiel scoffed. “That’d be a great plan if we had the project planned out.”

“Yeah, Einstein, get with the program,” gibed Dean, a dopey smile playing on his lips.

Sam looked a thousand ways from done. “You’re a friggin’ jerk.”

“Of all the big boy words and that’s the best you have?” Dean chuckled, “Nice, Sammy.”

“Sammy is a chubby twelve-year-old, it’s _Sam._ ”

Dean curled his lip. “Who died and made you prima donna?”

It probably wasn’t the most opportune place, but Castiel was desperate. He whipped out his cell and scrolled through his most recent contacts. He made sure to use Google Hangouts in hopes that the NSA would track his messages and send in backup.

_Help me._

**Charlie:** _What’d he do now?_

_They’re having a measurement competition. I am the meat in an idiot sandwich._

**Charlie:** _Ham or turkey?_

_NOT FUNNY, CHARLIE._

**Charlie:** _Look on the bright side, Cassie. Two more months & you’ll be teaching them!_

_Oy, where did I go wrong?_

“Who’re you texting? Girlfriend?”

Cas turned up to meet the impossibly green eyes of one Dean Winchester. His tongue darted down to lick the seam of his bottom lip and despite the fact that Castiel was double majoring in English and Linguistics, the action alone made him forget every word from his native language.

Eventually, after hundreds upon thousands of dollars in education spending hit him square in the face, he settled on a stern “No.”

The answer seemed to tickle him for reasons unbeknownst to Cas. “Boyfriend?”

“No,” he replied, tipped. “And I fail to see how my relationship status is your business.”

Dean suppressed something that resembled a smile. “You’re a real-life Bridget Fonda.”

“What?”

“ _Singles_?” Dean blasphemed, seizing the place where his supposed heart was. “Don’t tell me you’ve never seen _Singles_.”

Cas shrugged lamely, clearly unamused. “Okay, then I won’t.”

“We can test Freud’s theory first,” Sam chimed, tossing a glance between the two of them. “If we can get half a dozen guinea pigs in one room, it might just work.”

The older brother tore his intensified gaze from Cas to fold his hands under his head. “Freud,” he hummed appreciatively, leaning back in his chair, “that’s the guy who said humans are wind-up sex dolls, right?”

“Wow, that’s actually right,” Sam noted, clearing his throat.

Dean nodded; drinking in his younger brother’s pained expression. “I can dig it.”

And that’s how Dean “Hopeless Case” Winchester became Castiel’s most useful asset.

***

The project turned out to be harder than one would expect—no pun intended. As it so happens, women don’t like to be used as sexual experimentations. Shocker.

He may be the Father of Psychoanalysis, but Sigmund Freud was in way over his head.

Regardless, in order for the assignment to go smoothly, Dean had to be sated by someone. The question was, with almost half of the school’s female population out of the picture, who was going to rise to the occasion to be the hero this assignment needed?

Dean was shifty. He hadn’t said a word since they stepped foot into the Psych department’s private screening room. Sedentary in the second row with both feet propped on the seat in front of him, the man had gone rigidly still. Cas could barely make out the shape of his head from the stage, bowed inward and zeroed in on his crotch. It wasn’t until Castiel detected a faint glow that he was not, in fact, honing in on Dean Junior, but on his phone.

Talk about giving a guy credit where credit wasn’t due.

“Something you wanna share with the class?”

Dean pivoted his head, holding back a snort. “You think _I_ scared them away? That’s cute.”

“Well, what the hell are we gonna do?” he hissed, patience teetering over the edge.

The eldest shrugged. “To be fair, I’m not exactly repulsed by dick.”

Sam, who was setting up the tripod stage right, nearly dropped a thousand dollar camera. Obviously Dean’s sexuality wasn’t a hot-button topic in the Winchester household. On the upside, Cas, for the first time that day, had a breakthrough solution. “Sam, start filming.”

Before the youngest could even second attempt putting the Canonout of commission, Castiel was climbing up and over the first set of barcaloungers like a lion stalking fresh kill. It wasn’t until Cas was climbing onto _him_ that Dean was properly reacting. The senior succeeded in spanning him with his thighs alone, earning a slight hitch on Dean’s end.

Yeah, this gave a whole new meaning to keep your friends close and your enemies closer.

“Is this okay?”

Silence answered him—sweet, savory silence. Castiel’s eyes tracked the bead of sweat forming at the base of his lip. He smelt like _Axe_ and desperation. Cas used this tongue-tied stillness as invitation to card his fingers through his caramel hair. One swipe had Dean leaning into his hand as it glided down and over his broad chest.

Castiel could feel both of Dean’s hearts thumping like something straight out of a cartoon. He wasn’t shying away, yet he wasn’t making the attempt to gain more friction. If eye-fucking was a legitimate form of sexual intercourse, Dean would’ve ridden him to Ann Arbor and back. He just sat there with those full-blown fields of clover, studying him like something under a microscope. If he didn’t know any better, he’d suspect—

_Oh my God._ He was a virgin. Dean “Sex Pundit” Winchester’s never had his cherry popped.

It was that realization followed by _no wonder he’s so bitter_ that caused Castiel’s lips to crash onto his. Instead of using words, he articulated with his mouth, prying open Dean’s with the slight plead of his tongue. Dean granted entrance, teeth clashing and tongues sliding together in almost flawless synchrony. His hand came to rest at the base of Castiel’s head, both steadying and securing his embrace as if he was afraid Cas would let go. As if Dean, being as green to the playing field as he was, didn’t taste like an _A+_.

Someone gagged from a distance and they both nearly forgot they had an audience. Soon, after an edit that would more than likely involve Barry White’s sultry voice playing in the background, that number would multiply by three hundred catcalls. “That’s a wrap!”

So maybe Cas ended up being the guinea pig in his project. To be fair, it earned him not only a formal date, but an excuse to teach a few new tricks to a willing student. And when it came to group projects, sometimes you had to take one for the team.

**-END-**


End file.
